Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep

Chapter Eight

Had we never lov’d sae kindly, Had we never lov’d sae blindly, Never met—or never parted—

We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

—robert burns, “Ae Fond Kiss”

Gemma forced herself to walk back through the woods by the exact same route by which she had come, stopping briefly where she had noticed the crushed ferns.

Who had lain there, and when? A forensic examination might soon provide the answers.

She went on, carefully, but as she reached the last few yards of the path, she gave in to the crawling sensation between her shoulder blades and bolted out into the garden just as Hazel’s hired Honda rolled into the drive.

As Gemma started towards the car, Louise came out of the garden shed, her arms filled with freshly pulled carrots.

Louise’s ready smile of greeting faded as she took in Gemma’s expression. “Gemma, what is it? Are you all right?”

“I— Did you—” Gemma stopped, unable to force any

further sound past her vocal cords, for Hazel had emerged from the car and was walking towards her.

“Gemma—” Hazel began as she reached her, “we need to talk—”

“No. I mean—” Gemma swallowed against the earthy, pungent smell of the carrots that suddenly threatened to choke her. She swung her gaze to Louise’s puzzled face, then back to Hazel. “Hazel. It’s Donald. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“Dead?” Louise repeated blankly, as if she hadn’t understood the word.

Hazel’s eyes widened, the expanding pupils swallowing the irises. “Wh—”

“In the meadow. He’s been shot,” Gemma said, very clearly.

Hazel shook her head. “Oh, no. There must be some mistake. That’s not possible—”

“There’s no mistake. I—I found him. Hazel, I’m so sorry.”

“No.” Hazel shook her head more vehemently. “You’re wrong. He can’t be—”

“I’m sure, Hazel,” Gemma said firmly. “Come on.

We’ll go inside—”

But Hazel jerked away from her outstretched hand.

“No. I don’t believe it. Donald can’t be dead. Where is he? What meadow?”

“We need to go into the house, love,” coaxed Gemma, but her involuntary glance at the path had betrayed her.

She reached for Hazel again, but too late. Hazel was away, flying across the garden towards the path in the woods.

“Hazel, no!” shouted Gemma, but as she started to run, Louise called out to her.

“Gemma, should I ring for an ambulance—”

“No, the police. And hurry,” Gemma answered, but the reply cost her precious seconds.

Hazel disappeared into the cover of the trees, and Gemma, hampered by her fear of damaging evidence, couldn’t quite manage to gain on her. It was only when Hazel reached Donald’s body that Gemma caught up.

Hazel stood, staring, both hands clamped hard over her mouth as if to stifle a scream. When Gemma put an arm round her, she seemed unaware of the contact.

“Hazel, it’s all—” All right, Gemma had started to say.

But it wasn’t, and all the platitudes she usually called up to comfort the bereaved seemed suddenly senseless, absurd. It wasn’t all right. It was not going to be all right.

“Hazel,” she began again. “We need to go back to the house now. The police are coming.”

“But . . . Donald . . . I shouldn’t leave him. I shouldn’t have left him. Last night. I should never have—” Hazel gave a convulsive sob and began to shake.

“Hush. Hush.” Gemma comforted her as if she were a child. “There’s nothing you can do. Come with me, now.”

Hazel moaned, pulling back towards Donald’s body, but Gemma managed to turn her back towards the house.

They had reached the woods when Hazel sagged against her, then fell to her hands and knees, her body racked by vomiting.

The spasms ceased after a few minutes and she looked up at Gemma, bewildered.

“It’s all right,” Gemma reassured her. She lifted Hazel to her feet again and urged her on. “We’ll get Louise to make us a nice cuppa when we get back to the house,”

she murmured, knowing it a ridiculous bastion against the horror of Donald’s death, but knowing also that it didn’t matter what she said, only that Hazel should hear the sound of her voice.

When they reached the garden at last, she saw Louise sitting on the bench by the kitchen door, her hands hanging limply between her knees.

Galvanized by their appearance, Louise jumped up and ran to meet them. “I’ve rung the police. And John.”

“John?” asked Gemma. “He’s not here?”

“No. He’d gone to one of the estates to pick up some free-range eggs for breakfast. He’s on his way back now.”

Breakfast? With a shock, Gemma looked at her watch and saw that it was only now just after seven. “And the others?”

“Still sleeping, as far as I know. I didn’t—should I have wakened them?”

“No. You did exactly the right thing. Now, if you’ll take Hazel inside, I’ll wait for the police.” Gemma squeezed Hazel’s arm and Louise slipped an arm round her shoulder with unexpected tenderness.

It was only as Gemma watched Louise shepherding Hazel in through the scullery door that she remembered the gun cabinet. There had been at least one shotgun, but she hadn’t looked closely—hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Would she know now if a gun was missing?

Her mind balked at following that thought any further.

She didn’t want to consider the possibility that someone in this house—someone she knew—had fired that shot—

but she knew it was a possibility that had to be considered.

Should she examine the gun cabinet now? Hesitating, she realized that the sky had darkened, the clouds scud-ding in from the west on the rising wind. Not rain, she thought with dismay. Rain would play hell with the crime scene, diminish any hope of collecting trace evidence.

But it wasn’t her crime scene, she reminded herself.

She had no jurisdiction here, no official responsibility to investigate Donald’s murder.

But she had liked Donald, had felt an unexpected connection to him in spite of her disapproval of his relationship with Hazel—Hazel, who had loved him enough to risk her marriage.

And someone had shot him, put an irrevocable end to his future, and to any future Hazel might have had with him—and they had done it right under Gemma’s nose.

She would help the police find the bastard responsible.

She owed it to Donald—and she owed it to Hazel.

Thinking furiously, she walked round to the front of the house, but before she could collect herself, a car with the distinctive yellow stripe of the Northern Constabulary pulled into the drive.

As the officer emerged from the car, Gemma saw that she was young and female, with dark hair, very blue eyes, and a square face that might be pretty when she smiled.

Reaching Gemma, the woman whipped her notebook from her belt with no-nonsense efficiency. “Ma’am. Was it you that reported a death?”